It is that time of year again. I post this story every November as we North Americans get closer to our Thanksgiving feast – which invariably features a big roasted turkey.

My friends, I give you…

The Somber Turkey

Once upon a time, outside of the Kingdom of Woodland, east of Winters, in the Land of California, there lived a happy turkey farmer named Hannigan. He loved raising turkeys, killing them, and selling them – in part or in whole – to clients all over California – where turkey eating was a big thing, especially during Thanksgiving and Christmas.

On Hannigan’s turkey farm lived a happy turkey named Norman. Norman was the happiest and most contented turkey the world had ever known because he was the biggest turkey anyone had ever seen. Farmer Hannigan often brought other humans to marvel at Norman’s size and physical beauty.

“That’s gonna be some big turkey,” the human visitors would always say.

“Yep,” Farmer Hannigan would always reply.

Farmer Hannigan was happy, which made Norman happy. Norman was proud of the fact that he was so big and fat with lots of white meat, whatever that was.

The other turkeys knew how Norman felt, because he was always bragging about himself.

“I’m gonna be some big turkey!” he would say.

The other turkeys got fed up with Norman’s bragging. One day Leonardo decided to do something about it.

Leonardo was not an especially big or happy turkey. Not being big didn’t make Leonardo unhappy. He could give a rat’s ass about how big he was. He didn’t buy into that neo-fascist farmcentric value system. Leonardo was a fiery-eyed revolutionary with a strong interest in pragmatic Marxism.

Leonardo

“You are one fine, big turkey,” Leonardo said to Norman one day.

“Yes, I am,” Norman preened.

“You know what they’re going to do to you because you’re so big?” Leonardo asked.

“Admire me,” Norman said, meaning it.

“Sure they are. They’re going to admire how good you taste,” Leonardo said.

“I beg your pardon?” Norman asked.

“They’re going to eat you, buddy. In a couple of months they’re going to catch you, kill you, cut off your head, pull out all of your feathers and your internal organs, cook you and eat you, and they’re going to pick you first because you’re so big. Lots of white meat.”

“Oh, my god!” Norman said. “They’re going to eat me!”

Norman realizes the truth.

“You mean you didn’t know?”

“No!”

“Everyone else knows. Why do you think that so many turkeys die while they’re drinking water?”

“Because they forget to breath?” Norman suggested.

Leonardo laughed. “You believe that? It’s a lie invented by the Man. Have you ever forgotten to breath?”

“No.”

“Of course not. You got to be really stupid to forget to breath.”

“But we are pretty stupid.”

“No we’re not. That’s just a lie to keep us down, to ruin our self esteem so we will be easy to exploit and so we won’t cause any trouble. I’ll tell you why some turkeys die drinking water. Depression. They’re depressed. Why else do you think those other “stupid” things happen? Why do you think some turkeys kill themselves by opening their throats in the rain and drowning? Why do you think hens sit on their eggs so hard they break the eggs?”

“Oh my god, they’re killing their babies,” Norman said, in horror.

“Right. They know what’s in store and they can’t take it. Would you want someone to eat your babies?”

“No,” Norman said. “What can I do?” he asked, whispering in abject terror.

“Maybe I can get you out of here,” Leonardo said. “On the outside there is an underground network of birds and humans who can take you to a place where you will be free.”

“Interested?”

“Of course!”

“Okay I’ll see what I can do.”

Time went by. Leonardo often spoke with Norman, teaching the bigger bird the truth about the world, teaching him hatred for the seemingly unbreakable power structure that doomed him and his race to be imprisoned, enslaved, slaughtered and devoured by killer apes.

“But remember,” Leonardo cautioned one night. “Not all humans are ravenous cannibals. Some are good, and eat only plants and bugs. These are the ones that help some of us get away.”

“How?” Norman asked in the star lit darkness.

“Every now and then there is a condition called Dark of the Moon, when there is no moon out and the darkness is as total as it can be. During this time, a human jumps the fence and opens a big box. As many of us run in as we can. We call it the Box of Freedom.”

“Just one box?”

“Yes, one box, but it is a big box, and it is better that some of us escape to keep the flames of hope burning.”

“I hope we both make it, brother,” Norman said.

“Me too, brother. Me too.”

Then came the Dark of the Moon. The turkeys were all quiet, making sure that there was no reason for Farmer Hannigan to investigate.

Suddenly the man with the box appeared. He placed a big box on the ground and opened the side.

“This is it, brother!” Leonardo said, running. Norman followed.

Leonardo made it into the box. Norman didn’t get in before the man closed the box.

“Don’t worry, brother!” Leonardo cried from inside the box. “I’ll be waiting for you in paradise!”

But it didn’t happen. The friendly human with the big box didn’t come back. And Thanksgiving approached. Leonardo was right – they came for Norman first.

Farmer Hannigan and his employees placed Norman in a big wooden crate built out of slats so that Norman could see and breathe. Then Norman was carried to a truck, to an airport, into the belly of a jet, into another truck, and onto a large lawn next to a big white house. Eventually, humans came to set up a lectern, chairs and cameras. More humans came. Some talked at the lectern in front of the crowd.

And then Norman’s cage was opened and gentle hands removed him from the crate.

“My god,” one human said. “This had got to be the biggest turkey I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s why the President is getting it,” another human said, not trying to make a joke.

Norman was brought to the front of the crowd. One human in a black suit made a short speech to another man, also standing in front of the crowd. Humans in the audience took pictures with still and video cameras.

And then Norman did it. He thrust out his neck and tried to bite the man who wasn’t giving the speech. Norman knew that he just couldn’t go gently into that good night.

The man giving the speech reached out, grabbed Norman’s long neck and choked Norman. Other humans helped stuff Norman back into the crate.

“That is one feisty bird,” the President quipped, and the reporters laughed.

In those days it was customary for the President to display generosity, and pardon the White House Thanksgiving turkey. So Norman was taken to a farm in Virginia, where he lived for the rest of his natural days.

Leonardo was not so lucky. He ended up as dinner for the man with the big box, who was nothing more than a thief who just couldn’t get over how stupid those turkeys were and how they would be so quite and just waddle into the box, as if they wanted to be eaten.

Which was, from the thief’s point of view, always possible. After all, turkeys are so stupid.

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“It is a complete mystery to me how on earth these two people could be accidentally shot a gun show,” said Skip Henderson, gun enthusiast, misogynist, homophobe, racist and sociopath.

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Skip Anderson can buy this gun at a gun show without a background check.

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At gun shows Americans – or anyone – can purchase automatic weapons without any background check being conducted.

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“Hello, my name is Joe, and that is my real name. It is not a made up name. I am Joe. And I am interested in purchasing your AK-47 in a cash transaction. Oooo! Are those high-capacity ammunition magazine clips I see in that bag?”

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“I bet Obama snuck in here and shot those 2 people to make gun owners look bad so that he and his Negro Army can come and take away our guns” Henderson said.

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“Guns are not responsible for these injuries and it is completely irresponsible to imply that guns have any connection to gun violence whatsoever anywhere in the world especially at a gun show,” said Tripp Wightman, a gun rights activist,”doomsday prepper” and paranoid schizophrenic who buys guns at gun shows without any background checks and makes methane from his own excrement.

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Mentally unfit to purchase a gun, but passed a background check because no court had ever declared him mentally unfit. So, like hundreds of thousands of people who should not ever own a gun, he was allowed to purchase one. And then he went to a political rally.

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“I will shoot anyone in the head multiple times using a semi automatic weapon with a fucking huge ammo clip,” Wightman said. “I’m sorry, I lost my train of thought. Oh yeah, the point I am trying to make is to make it very clear that I will shoot and kill anyone who argues that gun violence – the epidemic of gun violence that is sweeping across our nation and tearing apart the fabric of our society. Hell, it happened again. I totally lost my train of thought.”

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He purchased two hand guns, a shot gun, and a semi automatic rifle and passed all three background checks. No court had ever declared him mentally unfit. Consequently he was not in the federal database that is used to perform background checks of people buying guns.After purchasing these guns, he went to the cinema.

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“Where was I? Oh yeah, I will brutally murder anyone who so much as implies that guns have anything to do with gun violence or attempts in any way to improve mental health care or background checks to prevent someone like me from buying all the guns I want. And then I will mutilate their bodies. And if possible, I will sell the body parts – including fluids – to raise money so I can buy more guns. That is how much I love America. That is how much I love the Second Amendment to the United States Constitution that protects my rights to own and use weapons that are designed to kill people. Lots and lots of people. Lots and lots of smelly, anti-American sinners who are building socialist agnostic, atheist, and Catholic robots that steal my luggage, violate my rights and infringe on my personal freedoms,” said Wightman.

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He bought this gun at a gun show without a background check. And now he is watching your children walk to school.

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“No one loves America more than me. Or guns,” said Wightman. “Did I tell you that I make methane from my own poop? I do it to stop the government from reading my thoughts.”

“The only option I will consider to remedy what is arguably an epidemic of gun related deaths in the United States is what the NRA proposed, and that is posting armed guards in every school in the country. But I do not want any taxpayer money to pay for it. I want these armed guards to be volunteers.”

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Eager to volunteer.

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“In other words, people like me,” Wightman concluded before adjusting the aluminum foil cap covering his head.

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Gun owners are willing to kill in order to maintain unrestrained access to assault weapons and the lack of background checks for those buying automatic weapons.

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UPDATE: subsequent to the posting of this story, 5 additional people were accidentally shot at gun shows in the United States.

I often ask the question “what is art?” A day doesn’t go by that I don’t ask myself that question over and over again.

I suffer from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) and have a large list of questions I ask my self over and over again, primarily because I can’t help myself: that is the nature of OCD – those with the disorder cannot help doing things over and over and over again. For example, in addition to asking myself “what is art?” I also habitually ask myself “why is a second as long as it is?” Seriously. Why? Why is a second as long as it is? Who decided?

But I digress. In the same manner that I am fascinated with the history of seemingly arbitrary units of measurement, I am also fascinated by the question of what makes art different from stuff that isn’t art.

After long and obsessive (if not compulsive) pondering, I have concluded that art communicates. Art has something to say. If it doesn’t have anything to say, then it isn’t art.

Art is a conversation that is multidimensional. It is a conversation between the artist and viewer. The conversation can be intellectual.

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It can be emotional.

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And the art people choose to put up in their homes communicates volumes about the person who acquired that art.

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Allow me to attempt to illustrate my thesis with an example drawn from my own life. Below is a painting my wife purchased for our home.

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Beautiful, isn’t it? This painting is an extremely good example of my wife’s personality. When I see it on the wall I smile and think of her.

Below is a painting that I recently purchased because it spoke to me. When I a saw it I knew I had to have it. I wanted to look up and see it in my home. And, I suspect that my decision to purchase this painting says a great deal about me.

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I can imagine your reaction. You think I’m kidding. You’ve read my blog and think this is some kind of joke. It isn’t a joke. I bought that painting. Here it it up on my family room wall:

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I just love it. When I look at it I smile because of the multidimensional message it communicates.

The most amazing thing, however, about my new painting is that my wife agreed to let me put it up at all. I think she did it because the pleasure it provides me is greater than the deep revulsion she feels when she looks at it.

I’ve decided to push my luck. I’ve found a new painting that I simply must have. I must own it and must place it on a wall within my home. I love it because it speaks directly to my appreciation for those intrepid 19th Century artists who left civilization to travel through the America West to chronicle the Native American, or “the Noble Savage” as those artists called them.

I found a painting of a Noble Savage – sitting proud and noble – on his trusty Uniclown.